


Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle

by helpiamabug



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helpiamabug/pseuds/helpiamabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Penelo pays a surprise visit to Basch. Snuggling ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle

**Author's Note:**

> Post-game canon in which Basch actually gets a shot at a happy ending, sort of. I love him, but he totally gets the shaft. Homeboy needs to stand up for himself, tell Ashe and Larsa to sort out their own shit, and run off and be sky-piratey with Penelo.
> 
> A/N - Completely from the strange depths of my imagination, AKA, not mine, no profit made, plz to not sue!

Archadia is too humid of late. Landis is a mountainous land, and cool even in summer's reach - Dalmasca may be a desert nation, but the heat there was less stifling than this thickness to the air as though he was breathing the ocean. Summer in the heart of the empire is the social season, although god knows why - Basch is sure that the fluttering ladies he's had the pleasure of escorting firmly away from Lord Larsa would rather not be wearing the ridiculously smothering velvet dresses they must wear to these balls. Archadian fashion means that the dresses are cut low, but cinched tightly with corsets, and the sleeves and skirts and trains are always long and voluminous. His justicar's plate is little better, and there is no respite for him - he has gathered quite a reputation for seriousness, as he has never been seen to remove his helm in public. Maker knows he'd like to - he thinks longingly of the shorts and leather braided vest he wore just a few years ago as yet another stinging bead of sweat drips into his eyes. Midnight creeps slowly closer, and he sighs with relief as he entrusts the care of his liege to Judge Drace and slinks off to his quarters.

He knows he shut the windows before he left for the ball, and yet - rich Jaharan tapestries sway in the breeze coming in over his balcony. He places his helm on his desk and slowly unbuckles the heavy plate, senses keenly attuned to movement in the shadows around him. He knows it is coming, trains his eyes off to one side and there - he swings around savagely, drawing the knife he keeps buckled at the small of his back as he throws himself forward and using his mass to keep the intruder from slipping away - he has him pinned against the balustrade, forearm digging into the strangers throat as he reaches across to draw down the kerchief across his face -

Only he is a she, and she is no stranger.

Three years of silence, and now Penelo, newly-crowned queen of Balfonheim (if the rumors are to be believed) - the ruthless sky pirate wanted in Archades for the murder of Cidolphus Bunansa and conspiracy against the throne is standing here before him, wicked grin twinkling in the firelight as she crushes a blade against his stomach in greeting.

Basch staggers back and shakes his head to clear it. Penelo settles cross legged on the rug before his darkened fireplace and gestures grandly at the armchair before the stone hearth. She is different and yet the same - bawdy gold hoops travel up both ears, and there are lines around her eyes and mouth, touches of white at her temples. There is a new, delicate tattoo on the underside of her wrist in a script that Basch cannot read, her arms heavy with brilliant platinum bracers and henna tattoos - and a deep, ugly scar crossing her collarbone and stopping just short of her throat (Basch files that away to bring up with Vaan and Balthier the next time they are arrested in Archadian airspace.) He sinks into the chair and leans forward onto his knees and reaches one hand hungrily out for her. She shifts, then, and sinks easily into the space between the soldier's legs, arms resting on either of his thighs, and leans back to gaze mischieviously up at him. Time shifts - for a moment, he is on the Phon coast again with Penelo spreading her golden hair over his legs as Fran teaches him how to braid the intricate warrior plaits he has seen on her people in the Eruyt forest, and then - he is his brother again, and trapped in the Archadian palace with a ghost from the past grinning up at him from the floor.

She is beautiful.

She is beautiful, and Basch is an impostor ten years her senior with the weight of an empire of his shoulders. It is not the first time in their long history together than Basch finds himself speechless in Penelo's presence - it seems there is simply so much to say that the words catch in his throat, and he can only manage a ragged gasp and to bend and press his face into the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and skystone and jasmine. He knows that were he to undress her - to peel off her leathers and bracers and binding linen, remove her knives, jewelry, pride - he would find the delicate petals crushed in her underclothes, the sweet scent wafting from under the curve of her breast. She told him once that her mother taught her that trick, and he has never forgotten the first time he woke up with a tiny white flower browning on the curve of his neck. Penelo reaches up and twines her fingers into the shorter hairs at the nape of his neck, and they stay sitting like statues, neither one speaking, until the moon rising over the sill brings Basch from his reverie.

Penelo yawns and presses their fingers together softly, dragging him up and towards his low bed - he has not quite broken his austere habits ingrained in him during years of sleeping on forest floors and in army camp beds, and she murmurs her discomfort as she curves against him, her head coming to rest on Basch's shoulder and slim fingers tucking themselves underneath his ribs. Both of them are still fully clothed, and the heat prickles under his leather jerkin but when he shifts to slide his arms out of it she whimpers and presses closer, and he stills easily.

There will be time enough in the morning for all the things he wishes to say, but for now, he brushes a strand of her cornsilk hair out of his face, tucks her head under his chin, and dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Marlowe's poem A Passionate Shepard to His Love, because I can totally see Penelo suggesting running off and living in a little cottage in the country side and making flower crowns for each other every day, and Basch is all like, 'HURR NO I CANNOT WOE DUTY HONOR COUNTRY' or some such shenanigans.
> 
> Also, I have a sinking feeling I've read something like this before and it just lodged itself in my brain as a 'new idea'. If I have inadvertantly ganked your story, please message me and all will be remedied!


End file.
